by Mike Rhynard
The leader relaxed his taut expression, breathed a mental sigh of relief. His people were already decimated from earlier encounters with these intruders, and they were many winters from having the number of warriors they’d counted just four winters before. So the Panther’s acknowledgement of the folly of a large frontal attack greatly raised his hopes for the future of his people.
“Our attack on the lone white man was successful because we were more in number, and he was unwary and unprepared to fight. These people now have warriors watching wherever they go, but their minds are not on their task. Their eyes search for things other than us and often linger on the women they protect; and when nothing scares them for a few days, they become lazy and overconfident, think they are safe, relax their vigilance. So we must combine this knowledge with patience and make small attacks, again and again, each time reducing their numbers and terrifying them a little more. We must also spread our attacks in time, so they may again become lazy and complacent before the next. And if any planned attack, even up to the moment of the first war cry, looks like it may not be a complete success, we must have the discipline to leave and attack them another day. If we do these things, then perhaps in the winter, when they’re cold, starving, and weak, and we’ve reduced their numbers, we will attack their fort with fire arrows, burn it to the ground, and kill all who cower inside.” He looked at the leader. “Many days have passed since we killed the white man on the island.” He once more drifted his gaze across each man’s face then looked back at the leader. “The enemy has again become complacent, and the Panther believes that now is the right time for our next attack.”
Most had nodded agreement as he spoke; none objected. After a pause, the Panther sat. The leader then stood, looked at each member of his council. “The Panther has spoken wisely . . . we shall do as he proposes.”
Governor White sat alone in his cottage, immersed in thought. Fernandez had announced that the resupply of fresh water and wood had been completed, that the large ships would depart within a day or two. He had asked White to provide him a supply list to deliver to Raleigh, also offered to carry any posts the colonists had for their friends and relatives in England. At least he’s respectable in those regards, White thought, even though he’s a blackguard for deserting us here. I’ll yet see him in shackles in the Tower.
Though near noon, the light in the cottage was too dim for White to see well enough to read or write; so he lit a candle, leaned his head close to it to read the draft list Roger Baylye had made of necessaries for Raleigh’s anticipated resupply voyage. He hesitated for a moment, recalled the times Baylye had rescued him, kept things on an even keel. He shook his head. Such an unlikely looking leader but a natural: thinks of everything, persuasive, honest, smart headed . . . save for his proposal that I return to England. Yes, I shall make him my deputy at tomorrow’s meeting. As he looked back at the list, he compared it to his mental estimates of required supplies and skills, saw the need for but a few additions. Not enough barley for the beer we’ll need, he thought. He increased the amount of barley by fifty percent. Salt beef—never have enough salt beef. He added more. And flour—need much more flour . . . oh yes, and more slow-spoiling vegetables, especially beans. He raised his head, thought, Roger’s gotten a good start on this, but because he hasn’t spent a year here as I have, he doesn’t yet realize that supplies of everything deplete far faster than expected.
So what additional skills do we need? He looked studiously at the wall, mentally ticked off the colony’s needed skills, noting existing shortfalls. We cannot yet depend on young Howe to fill his father’s shoes, don’t know if he’ll ever come ’round, so we must have someone to set up and operate a small foundry. And medical supplies—need three times what we now have. He thought of John Wyles. Poor miserable fellow: leg’s gangrenous; Jones can’t help him, never cut off a leg before; and Fernandez won’t take him. He’ll surely die soon, and painfully . . . a good man. He hit the table with his fist. Not a just end for him, but what can I do? . . . I know what I must do: convince Fernandez to take him and hope he gets him to England in time. He pondered the idea for a moment then shook his head. No, Fernandez won’t do it. John’s a dead man unless Jones can do a successful amputation . . . with nothing to temper the pain. God, pray let him die quickly. But perhaps we can find a root or a berry that will dull his senses. Must ask Manteo. He said a prayer for Wyles, prayed that Manteo could help.
He again looked at the list, identified a few more missing skills. Fishermen who know how to fish, and farmers. Perhaps if we leave this place, some other Savages will show us how they farm . . . pity we never farmed with Lane . . . expected the Savages to feed us—the root of all our troubles, even now. Didn’t foresee this problem. He checked the list one more time, added ammunition then bulk lead for making shot. Without a foundry to make large quantities, we’ll have to make our own . . . we’ve plenty of molds, just not enough lead. Must have far more than we think we need . . . oh my God, and powder. He re-checked the list. Oh, there it is, plenty of powder. He doubled the order of seed stock, then tripled it. No Englishman has ever planted here; don’t know what we’ll need, how much won’t germinate . . . very little left from initial stocks. Be safe, John. We can make bread of it if we don’t plant it. He sat back, stared at the wall. I think that’s all. Hope Raleigh doesn’t choke on the price of it all.
He returned his gaze to the list, but his mind drifted to a vision of Cotsmur and Stilman fighting each other over a paltry little fish the day before—rolling around on the ground as if in mortal combat. Indeed, it had come to that. He shook his head disgustedly, reflected on the general shortness of tempers, the other recent fights that had broken out over seemingly trivial matters. Order is indeed beginning to deteriorate: workers running out of energy, lapses in quality and attitude, more accidents, little remaining game on the island, hapless fishermen—men of supposed skill and productivity in English waters, resounding failures here. It’s all headed in the wrong direction, he mused . . . unless we leave this island . . . soon. That, and that alone, must be our priority after Fernandez leaves. Need to stop work on the palisades immediately, rest the men, begin planning and preparing an orderly departure, send emissaries to the tribes where we decide to go. But where will we go? The nagging question remained, tormented his mind as if he were a man choosing between two remarkably unattractive, ill-tempered women, one of whom he would have to marry. Transport into the main will require a large, noisy traverse of dangerous territory; but there is no escaping the inherent risks of sailing the pinnace and two shallops fifty miles to Chesapeake on the open sea, without a seaman among us. What to do? Even if we go into the main, we’ve still got to sail and row a good distance, albeit on calmer waters . . . but every Savage from here to the fall line will know of our presence and want to attack us. But on the positive side, both places should provide a better existence than here, and both will be far safer from chance discovery by a passing Spanish warship. Must discuss all of this—including the need for greater vigilance for Spanish ships—with Roger and the Assistants on the morrow, reach a decision, and move quickly. ’Tis late August and winter is coming, but perhaps the promise of a new location with better prospects will raise spirits and reduce tensions.
And Elyoner, my dear Ellie, and your baby . . . I so fear for your safety . . . the Harvie woman and her child, as well. He bowed his head, closed his eyes; thought of his wife, then Elyoner as a baby; rued the day he’d persuaded her and Ananias to join him on this foolish venture. What had he been thinking? What a huge blunder, and what a—his eyes suddenly sparkled; he raised an eyebrow, cracked a timid smile. “What if I can persuade them to return to England with Fernandez, be my representatives to Raleigh?” he said aloud. “Yes, that’s the answer.” His expression abruptly soured. But ’twould look more than suspicious if the governor sent his family back to England; ’twould truly send the wrong message, open the door to criticism by enemies . . . and an infant on a long sea voyage
is a complication. Nonetheless, I shall try to persuade them . . . and in truth, ’twill probably be safer for the baby on the ship than here. But the greater challenge could be persuading Fernandez . . . perchance far more difficult than persuading Elyoner. But in any event, I must choose someone else to return in case Elyoner and Ananias, or Fernandez, refuse my bidding . . . and it must be someone I trust, for I can cannot trust Fernandez. He nodded three times. Yes, Ananias and Elyoner are the perfect solution.
Emily approached the palisade section where Hugh Tayler and his workmate, John Bridger, had just finished holding a palisade post that was being drilled and pinned. As she carried her basket of food and a beer bag up to the men, Lieutenant Waters called for a supper break. Bridger nodded his respects, walked off toward the cottage he shared with several other single men. With a tentative, uncertain look, Emily said, “Hello, Hugh. I’ve brought you some supper. Let’s find shade.”
Tayler hadn’t seen her approach, was surprised and pleased when he spied her. “Emily, are you . . .”
“I’m fine, Hugh. I . . . I must apologize for—”
“No, don’t. ’Tis not necessary; I completely understand. ’Twas the wrong time for—”
“No, I insist. I was quite rude to you, most unfairly so. And I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“You needn’t ask my forgiveness, Emily, but granted. Now let’s find that shade. Here, let me carry the basket. There’s a good place over here, outside the wall. Where’s your father today?” As he took the basket from her, he held her free hand, felt her warmth spread up his arm to his body then down to his loin.
“He and Ananias are finishing a final inventory of supplies for the governor. As you know, Fernandez is departing, and we must order more of everything before he goes.”
“Indeed.” He led her silently through a gap in the palisades then turned right, into the shade of the wall, and motioned her to sit. They were alone, out of the sight of everyone in the colony. He handed her the basket, looked into her eyes. “I’ve missed you, Emily. More than I can say.” He felt her eyes penetrate his, as always, but this time detected a trace of sorrow.
“And I you, Hugh. It’s been a most hectic time with scarcely a moment to rest or think.”
“I understand.” He smiled. “You’ve been extraordinarily selfless with Elyoner, her baby, and young Howe.”
Emily nodded. “One helps those who need help.” She had seen George on the other side of the green as they left the palisades, had again felt the sting of his rage. And Tayler’s mention of him produced a lump in her throat, but she swallowed it before it showed. They then sat silently for a moment while Tayler debated asking Emily about George, and Emily debated telling him. Lonely out here with no others, she thought. “Here, Hugh. Have some beer. ’Tis nearly the end of our supply, but you look as if you need it.” She handed him the beer skin; he took a swig, handed it back.
“Thank you, Milady. You are most kind . . .” Again the eyes, studying, probing, alive. He held her hand, felt his mind cloud as it always did. “Emily, why are you so beautiful?”
Emily choked, nearly spitting out the sip of beer she had just taken, then quickly covered her mouth and swallowed. “Stop it, Hugh. I’m not beautiful. Why do you say such things? You’re teasing me again. Here, have some more beer while I think how to tease you back.” She handed him the beer skin. “A bit warm isn’t it?”
“Aye, a bit, but tasty nonetheless. And I am not teasing you. I’m speaking the truth.” He took another swig. “Wait! I take it back. You’re not beautiful. You’re simply the most striking and captivating woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Why do you always do this?” Though profoundly embarrassed, she admitted to herself that she enjoyed the flattery, even though she disbelieved it, and also relished their verbal sparring. “And if it were true, it would not be because I had anything to do with it. ’Twould be God’s fault alone. But it matters not, for ’tis not so.”
Her modesty excited him, convinced him she truly did not know how beautiful she was. “Very well, God Himself is to blame. Now tell me why you’re so strong and confident.”
“Hugh, stop this nonsense! Talk about something else, something serious. Lord knows we’ve plenty to talk about in that realm.”
“Not until you answer me.”
She sighed. “Very well. If I’m strong or confident, ’twould be from my mother, for she’s both. My father, as well, but less so, and in different ways. And both parents always gave me much responsibility and taught me how to manage it. Now, on to something more interesting.”
So different from me, he thought. I had no responsibility, no learning, no example, an abusive father. “Very well, though I’d much prefer to talk about you.”
She opened the basket. “Have some bread and salt beef. Not much here, but enough. Perhaps tomorrow someone will shoot a deer or catch some fish.”
He tore off a piece of bread, handed the half loaf back to her. “Perhaps. Oh, here. Have some more beer, Emily.”
She took a swig then ate a piece of salt beef. After a short silence, she said, “Hugh, do you think we’ll all be alive a year from now?”
He thought for a moment. “All of us? No. Most of us? I hope so. I can’t acquire land or build an estate, or have a wife and raise a family if I’m dead. So, since I’m determined to do those things, I’ll have to survive . . . and you, as well, for you’re part of my plan.”
Emily lowered her eyes to the ground, blushed, shook her head with a hopeless smirk. “Curse you, Hugh Tayler. You’re doing it again.”
“Emily, as I’ve told you before, no one can embarrass you. And ’tis all true. I do have secret plans for you.”
“You must be speaking of someone else. We’ve not known each other long enough for you to have such plans. Truly, your resolves are too bold, beyond the possible, and quite improbable.”
He chuckled. “No, Mistress, I speak only of you. You’ve captured my heart, and ’tis yours to do with as you wish.” Though being playful when he spoke, he suddenly realized he’d pronounced the unequivocal truth— an unfamiliar, pristine truth, one never before envisioned or felt by Hugh Tayler. He then hoped for something he’d never hoped for in his life, something he’d never needed to hope for because he’d never loved: that his love for a woman be returned.
Emily saw something different in his eyes, something new, an urgent longing; she sensed the need for caution but didn’t know why, decided to respect her instinct. “Hugh, you mustn’t speak so. I’m not ready. Too many things in my head right now. Please give me some time.” She waited for a response, but he remained silent, probed her eyes with his. “We should go back, Hugh. We’re not supposed to be out here without guards. It makes me a little uneasy, if not you. And my father will have a seizure if he learns I was alone with you and outside the walls.” She offered a weak smile. “Rogue that you are.”
He held his eyes on hers, kept his silence; realized he’d moved too far, too fast; felt a thump of reality in his heart but sensed that patience would win her in the end. “Em, we can’t go back now. We haven’t finished supper yet. I’ll starve.”
She closed her eyes for a moment; considered standing, walking back inside the palisades alone; but instead gave him a deadpan look, followed by a hopeless smile and a head shake. She handed him the food basket, took a sip of beer. “Very well. Tell me . . . uh . . . tell me when the palisades will be complete.”
He smiled. “Impossible to say, for our pace grows slower every day, and people are starting to grumble. We all know they need to be completed, but people are simply growing weary of it. I, as well—particularly as a former officer—but who can complain when Waters is there beside us doing his share. He’s a good officer, by the way. The grumbling is what concerns me. Soldiers and others complaining about Waters, a few of them rather rebelliously. ’Tis a dangerous thing to do in the open, for the line between mutiny and griping is thin, and the right of determination between the two rests with the com
mander.”
Emily nodded, wondered why her father and Ananias had not mentioned the discontent, wondered if they were aware, and if not, why not.
“I’m getting to know some of the soldiers—good sorts most of them, some not so good, but they all like to complain. Part of the breed, you know.”
“Have you said anything to Lieutenant Waters, or the Assistants, or the governor about it?”
“No, because ’tis not too serious . . . yet. When it is, I shall. Actually, I’d rather fancy being an Assistant myself; but of course, there’d have to be a vacancy, and someone would have to nominate me, and then I’d have to be elected. No telling when or if such might happen.”
“You should tell Governor White and some of the Assistants of your interest. They’ll be the ones to decide.”
“I shall.” He abruptly frowned. “By the bye, Emily, is young Howe the reason you were upset yesterday?”
Emily looked startled, confused, suddenly unsure of herself. “Hugh, I don’t want to talk about George . . . other than to say he’s had a difficult time and it goes on, and I don’t know when, if ever . . .” Her eyes filled with tears; she leaned against him, wrapped her arms around his middle, hid her face on his chest.